justkill_mealready

Elowen never feared the night. She found solace in the whisper of rain against old stone, in the scent of earth after a storm, in the creaking song of crickets beneath the moonlight. But on one fateful evening, the night did more than embrace her—it called her name.

Ishmael was a creature of shadows, a demon bound by fate and blood, cursed to linger at the edges of a world that no longer spoke his language. He had seen centuries pass, watched empires crumble, and yet, when he saw her—this fragile, fearless girl wandering through the dark—something within him stirred.

She should have run. He should have let her.

But instead, their gazes met, and in that moment, the line between salvation and damnation blurred.

The Night That Called My Name

The night stretched endlessly, wrapped in the hush of a world half-asleep.

Elowen walked alone beneath the vast, yawning sky, the moon watching from its throne of clouds. The wind moved gently through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and the distant smoke of dying embers. The village was far behind her now, its lanterns swallowed by the dark, but she did not turn back.

She liked the solitude. The stillness.

Her hands brushed the fabric of her cloak, fingers tracing the worn edges of something that had seen too many winters. She should not have come this far. But she reveled in the intoxicating edge of peril — and who will not succumb to the act of such peril?.

Not a sound, not a movement—just a shift in the air, like the weight of unseen eyes settling on her skin. The wind did not stop, the trees did not tremble, yet something had changed.

Ahead, where the path met the edge of the woods, the shadows thickened. Not with the absence of light, but with something deeper. Something waiting.

He stepped forward, emerging from the dark like he had always belonged to it. Not like a man, but not quite like a monster either.

The moonlight touched him hesitantly, as if unsure whether it was meant to. His coat, long and dark, shifted with the breeze, though the air was still. His hair, tousled by nothing, framed a face carved in sharp, perfect lines. His eyes—deep, depthless—held no reflection, no gleam from the silver light above.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Her breath did not hitch. Her pulse did not race.

Instead,She studied him the way a traveler studies an unmarked path—uncertain, but unable to turn away.

"And you are far from hell, demon."

A slow, quiet sound—almost a chuckle, but not quite.

The distance between them was nothing. And yet, it was everything.

"I do not belong to hell," he murmured, tilting his head. "Not in the way you think."

Instead, she looked at him the way one looks at the ocean—aware of its depth, its danger, yet unable to turn away.

"Then tell me, demon," she said softly. "Where do you belong?"

For the first time, Ishmael hesitated.

The wind moved again, rustling the leaves, carrying the scent of something unplaceable—old books, rain-soaked earth, and the restless song of crickets—whispers of a world caught between silence and sound."

The night stretched between them, long and endless.

And for some reason, that answer did not frighten her.

Lure Of The Shadows